Poll takes compassion on him and they are duly married—
"A day or two passed amorously sweet
Love, kissing, cooing, billing, all their meat,
At length they both felt hungry—'What's for dinner?
Pray, what have we to eat my dear,' quoth Poll.
'Nothing,' by all my wisdom, answered Owl.
'I never thought of that, as I'm a sinner
But Poll on something I shall put my pats
What sayst thou, deary, to a dish of rats?'
'Rats—Mister Owl, d'ye think that I'll eat rats,
Eat them yourself or give them to the cats,'
Whines the poor bride, now bursting into tears:
'Well, Polly, would you rather dine on mouse
I'll catch a few if any in the house;'
'I won't eat rats, I won't eat mice—I won't
Don't tell me of such dirty vermin—don't
O, that within my cage I had but tarried.'
'Polly,' quoth owl, 'I'm sorry I declare
So delicate you relish not our fare
You should have thought of that before you married.'"
"The Ode to the Devil," is in reality a severe satire upon human nature under an unpleasant form. He says that men accuse the devil of being the cause of all the misdoings with which they are themselves solely chargeable, moreover that in truth they are very fond of him, and guilty of gross ingratitude in calling him bad names:—
"O Satan! whatsoever gear
Thy Proteus form shall choose to wear
Black, red, or blue, or yellow
Whatever hypocrites may say
They think thee (trust my honest lay)
A most bewitching fellow.
"'Tis now full time my ode should end
And now I tell thee like a friend,
Howe'er the world may scout thee
Thy ways are all so wondrous winning
And folks so very fond of sinning
They cannot do without thee."
Sheridan was one of those writers to whose pecuniary distresses we owe the rich treasure he has bequeathed. His brother and his best friend confided to him that they were both in love with Miss Linley, a public singer, and his romantic or comic nature suggested to him that while they were competing for the prize, he might clandestinely carry it off. Succeeding in his attempt, he withdrew his wife from her profession, and was ever afterwards in difficulties. He seems in his comedies to have a love of sudden strokes and surprises, approaching almost to practical jokes, and very successful when upon the stage. A screen is thrown down and Lady Teazle discovered behind it—a sword instead of a trinket drops out of Captain Absolute's coat—the old duenna puts on her mistress' dress—all these produce an excellent effect without showing any very great power of humour. But he was celebrated as a wit in society—was full of repartee and pleasantry, and we are surprised to find that his plays only contain a few brilliant passages, and that their tissue is not more generally shot through with threads of gold.
In comparison with the other dramatists of whom we have spoken, we observe in Sheridan the work of a more modern age. We have here no indelicacy or profanity, excepting the occasional oath, then fashionable; but we meet that satirical play on the manners and sentiments of men, which distinguishes later humour. In Mrs. Malaprop, we have some of that confusion of words, which seems to have been traditional upon the stage. Thus, she says that Captain Absolute is the very "pine-apple of perfection," and that to think of her daughter's marrying a penniless man, gives her the "hydrostatics." She does not wish her to be a "progeny of learning," but she should have a "supercilious knowledge" of accounts, and be acquainted with the "contagious countries." There is a satire, which will come home to most of us in Malaprop, notwithstanding her ignorance and stupidity, giving her opinion authoritatively on education. She says that Lydia Languish has been spoiled by reading novels, in which Sir Anthony agrees. "Madam, a circulating library in a town is an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through the year, and depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last." Not only Mrs. Malaprop, but also Sir Anthony, form an entirely wrong estimate of themselves. The latter tells his son that he must marry the woman he selects for him, although she have the "skin of a mummy, and beard of a Jew." On his son objecting, he tells him not to be angry. "So you will fly out! Can't you be cool like me? What the devil good can a passion do? Passion is of no service, you impudent, violent, over-bearing reprobate. There, you sneer again! don't provoke me!—but you rely on the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog!"
Sheridan's humour is generally of this strong kind—very suitable for stage effect, but not exquisite as wit. Hazlitt admits this in very complimentary terms:—
"His comic muse does not go about prying into obscure corners, or collecting idle curiosities, but shows her laughing face, and points to her rich treasure—the follies of mankind. She is garlanded and crowned with roses and vine leaves. Her eyes sparkle with delight, and her heart runs over with good-natured malice."